


Seagull of My Youth

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-13
Updated: 2007-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Dean's confession of love doesn't go exactly as planned.





	Seagull of My Youth

**Author's Note:**

> This was all stele3's idea, I just wrote it. Thanks to mcee and onelittlesleep.

It didn't happen the way Dean was expecting. He kind of thought there would be a dramatic announcement, and some manly hugging, and maybe a furtive tear or two. That was how it had been with Cassie, anyway. Instead, Sam pressed a kiss to Dean's shoulder, murmured, "I love you," and started snoring ten seconds later.

 _Crap_ , Dean thought, his heart beating fast.

He thought about it the next morning, standing over the toilet with his dick in one hand, waiting for his morning wood to go down so he could pee. Sam was a clever bastard, Dean would give him that: saying it late at night, last thing before sleep, meant that Sam got to avoid having to talk about it, but it also meant that the ball was in Dean's court. If he didn't say it, Sam would think he was manlier than Dean. It would mean that Sam _won_ , at least in his own head, which was the worst of all imaginable fates.

His path was clear: Dean was going to have to say it.

Dad had taught Dean to never go into a dangerous situation without considering all possible angles of attack. What he needed was a plan.

Step one: reconnaissance. "Hey, we should go to Wal-mart," he said to Sam later, their shoulders bumping as they strolled out of the diner where they'd eaten breakfast. "I need a new umbrella."

"You need an _umbrella_ ," Sam said.

"Yep," Dean said.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You have to let me drive."

"Fine," Dean said, gritting his teeth. It was a small price to pay for some insight into the mind of the enemy.

At Wal-mart, Sam decided he needed new socks, and Dean left him there to scowl at the bags and read every word on all of the labels.

Dean wandered around for a while, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at all the useless crap people liked to fill their lives with. He found the magazine aisle and flipped through _Maxim_ , glancing at the dumb headlines about how to make her take it deep and like it. Dean knew all about pleasing a woman, and he didn't need some stupid magazine to tell him how to do it. He stuck the _Maxim_ behind a stray copy of _Newsweek_.

The women's magazines were in the next rack over. Dean looked around to make sure nobody was watching, and then he sidled over, grabbed a copy of _Glamour_. The cover said, in huge pink letters, "Learn to tell your man how you feel!"  
  
He flipped to page 86. _Still scared of those three little words? There are other ways to let him know you care. Try cooking his favorite meal—there's nothing men like better than home-cooked food from their girl—or agreeing to watch that Vin Diesel movie. Our favorite: sexy lingerie._

Dean frowned. He wished he had Dad's notebook with him; he should probably be taking notes.

A cart squeaked up behind him. "Dude, are you reading Cosmo?" Sam asked.

Flushing, Dean shoved the magazine back into its rack. " _No_ ," he said, which was technically true. "Shut up. Are you done being a girl about your socks?"

"Sure," Sam said, smirking. " _I'm_ the girl here. At least I don't read _Cosmo_."

Dean said, "I'm making you pay for lunch."

"It's a fradulent credit card, Dean. It's like Monopoly money, that's hardly a punishment—"

"Did you not hear me telling you to shut up?" Dean asked.

"Touchy," Sam said, and smacked Dean's ass as he pushed the cart by.

They headed for Boca Raton the next morning, on the trail of an honest-to-God Swamp Thing.

"You're shitting me, right," Dean said when Sam told him about it.

Sam laughed. "No. Ash called. There've been five sightings in the last two weeks, and now it's started eating people. Apparently it got out of Loxahatchee and went on a rampage."

"Christ," Dean said. "I hate that cannibalistic swamp bullshit."

"Actually, it's not cannibalism unless it's eating other Swamp Things."

"Do I look like I care," Dean said.

"No, not really," Sam said.

Sam napped in the passenger seat from St. Louis until Paducah. Dean poked him periodically with a soda straw, just to see the way Sam snorted in his sleep and flapped one hand around, the other one still tucked in his armpit.

"Dork," Dean muttered fondly.

He took advantage of the quiet to practice his speech. "I... love... ketchup," he said, and then banged on the steering wheel with his fist. "Damn it!" He took a deep breath. "I love—Sammy, I... I _love_ —"

 _Crap_. He scowled at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Maybe he needed to work up to it.

***

The Swamp Thing was ugly. And _smelly_. Christ, it smelled like a combination of rotting sewage and moldy laundry, and it drooled its slime all over Dean before Sam got his act together and shot the Thing in the twisted mess that passed for its face.

"Jesus, about time," Dean said, wiping swamp goo out of his ear. There were rocks digging into his kidneys. He hated nature.

"I told you to stand over there!" Sam hollered, pointing.

"It was looking the other way!" Dean said. "I thought I could get the drop on it!"

"Well, you _didn't_ ," Sam said, "so can you please try a little bit harder to not get yourself _killed_ —"

"Jeez, okay, okay," Dean said. "Help me up, wouldya?"

He spent half an hour in the bathtub after they got back to the motel, trying to scrub off the goo stench. It didn't work. His hair was kind of green where the Thing had drooled on him.

Sam came into the bathroom after a while, pissed, washed his hands.

"That's uncouth," Dean said.

"You don't even know what that word means," Sam said.

"I totally do," Dean said. "You think I'm stupid or something?"

"No," Sam said. He knelt by the tub and took the washcloth out of Dean's hand. "You've got goo in your ear."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that, Sherlock," Dean said.

"Here," Sam said. He wrapped the washcloth around his index finger and started scrubbing at Dean's ear.

Dean made a face and put his feet up on the faucet, looking at how wrinkled his toes were. "Dude, I taught you how to use a washcloth, I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

"Just let me do this," Sam said quietly, and so Dean lay there in the cooling water and let Sam clean all the swamp goo out of his ear.

They spent a few days in Boca Raton. Sam wanted to go snorkeling.

"Whatever," Dean said. "Knock yourself out. Don't let a barracuda eat you."

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Sam asked, fussing with the drawstring on his newly-purchased swim trunks. They had pictures of brightly-colored fish on them, magenta and blue.

Dean hated fish. "Sunburn, fish, and coral that can hurt you," he said. "I think I'll pass."

"You have no sense of adventure," Sam said.

"I'm gonna shove that snorkel up your ass," Dean said. "Get outta here."

Sam went. Dean took the Impala and drove around until he found a grocery store. It was time to institute stage two of his genius plan.

Their motel room was actually one of those suites for business travelers, with a sitting room and a full kitchen. Sam had suggested it and then looked so sad when Dean refused that Dean had wheeled the car around, cut through two lanes of traffic, and pulled into the parking lot of the Comfort Inn Suites. It was gonna max out Tony Spellman's credit card, but Dean was glad he'd let Sam guilt him into it: the kitchen had an actual oven, which was vital to the plan.

Dean hadn't done much cooking in years, but when Sam was still in high school, Dean had cooked for him pretty regularly, especially while Dad was away—nothing fancy, just baked macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, casseroles, things that Dean could whip together in the evening after he got home from work. He still remembered some of the recipes, even, measurements burned into his brain after years of making the same few things over and over.

He was taking the macaroni out of the oven when Sam got back, beaming, his shoulders burned bright red.

"You made macaroni?" Sam asked, sounding delighted, shedding snorkeling gear and a wet towel.

Dean settled the casserole dish on top of the stove, scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah."

"Awesome," Sam said. "What's the occasion?"

"I just wanted to make it, Sammy, Jesus. Quit interrogating me."

"Dude, chill out," Sam said. "I was just asking."

"Whatever," Dean said grumpily.

Sam made happy grunts while he ate, his jaw working. "This is really good," he said, waving his fork around.

"I'm the master," Dean said.

"Yes, Dean. You're the master of macaroni and cheese. Congratulations," Sam said.

"Smartass. See if I ever cook for you again," Dean said.

Sam leaned over and kissed Dean, his mouth full of noodles. "You're the master," he said.

After dinner, Sam sat on the floor in front of the TV while Dean rubbed aloe vera gel on his shoulders. Dean thought about saying it: _Hey, Sammy, I love you._ Simple as that. It would be painful, but then it'd be over, and maybe he'd get to fuck Sam in the ass, which was well worth a little personal humiliation.

He said, "You know, Sam I really... I really love—this show."

Sam turned his head. "America's Next Top Model? Seriously?"

"Shut up," Dean said, and scowled at the TV. That bitch Tyra was laughing at him.

***

They stopped in Hattiesburg to deal with a routine haunting, your typical salt-and-burn. It went smoothly, and they were back at their motel by late afternoon, sweaty and a little tired.

"I'm gonna go get some beer and sandwiches," Sam said.

"Okay," Dean said, relieved that he wouldn't have to invent an excuse to get Sam out of the room for a while. "Bring me a meatball sub, okay?"

"Those things are gonna kill you," Sam said.

Dean made a face. "Christ, spare me the lecture, Lettuce Boy."

Sam chirped his hand at Dean and slammed out the front door before Dean had time to respond.

"Little bitch," Dean muttered, determined to get the last word even if Sam couldn't hear it.

It was time for stage three: the confession. Dean stripped down and showered, washing the salt dust out of his hair, and then put on clean clothing and shaved in front of the mirror over the sink. His hands were shaking. He nicked himself twice, and had to rip off little bits of toilet paper to stick to the cuts.

"Jesus Christ, Winchester, pull it together," Dean muttered to himself. He'd faced down angry spirits, succubi, and zombies—there was no reason for him to be so frightened, but he was.

The door in the other room opened. "Dean?"

"In here," Dean called. He plucked the toilet paper off his face, dabbed his fingers beneath the faucet and wiped off the dried blood. His reflection was pale and wide-eyed, and his heart was thundering in his chest. He glared at himself in the mirror. He was gonna do it this time: no pussying out.

Sam was laying things out on the table: wrapped-up sandwiches, chips, beer. "I got your meatball sub," he said. "Don't blame me when you gain twenty pounds."

"My hero," Dean said, leaning in the doorway of the bathroom.

"Your—was that a pun?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean said.

"Yeah, whatever. You gonna come eat before it gets cold?"

"I guess so," Dean said, but he didn't move. "Could you—I, uh, I need to. I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" Sam asked, his eyebrows pulling together.

"I, uh." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck and looked out the window toward the parking lot, unwilling to meet Sam's eyes while he said it. "I mean, you know, we're brothers, and you know I'd do anything for you—"

"I know, Dean," Sam said, still looking puzzled as hell.

"Would you shut up and let me finish?" Dean said. "What I'm trying to say is that—that I, um. That Iloveyou." The last part came out all in a rush, and Dean cringed at how fucking stupid he sounded.

Sam's mouth started curling up into a grin, and that was it for Dean: he bolted, was out the door and halfway across the parking lot, keys in hand, before Sam could get out one single word of whatever sentence it was he'd opened his mouth to say. Dean unlocked the Impala and flung himself behind the wheel. He pounded his forehead against the steering wheel a few times, muttering, "Jesus, you're such an _asshole_ , there must've been a better way to do that shit—"

A tap on the window had him bolting upright. It was Sam, grinning, but also kind of looking like he wanted to throttle Dean. Dean went for the lock on the door, but Sam was too fast, and hauled the door open before Dean could punch the button.

"Come on, man," Sam said, "are you seriously trying to hide out here? Glass is _transparent_ , you know."

"Fuck off," Dean snarled, mortified, furious with Sam for being a smartass in this of all goddamn situations.

"No," Sam said. He shoved his way onto the seat, pushing Dean over, and got Dean in a headlock. "Can we talk about this or are you gonna try to get away from me again?"

"No goddamn talking," Dean said. "I already said it—Jesus, Sammy, what the hell else do you want me to say? Let go of me, I wanna go eat my goddamn sandwich."

"No," Sam said. "It's not—you don't have to be all embarrassed about this. I love you so much, Dean, and I'm glad that you feel comfortable sharing your emotions with me."

"I'm never letting you watch Dr. Phil again," Dean said, struggling to get away. He put out one of his arms, trying to get Sam to let go of him, but instead he felt his elbow connect with Sam's face, and Sam yelped and pulled away.

"Goddammit," Sam said.

"Fuck," Dean said, " _Sammy_ , did I—" He turned, trying to get a look at the damage.

Sam was holding both hands in front of his face, and his fingers were slick with blood; it was dripping down his chin, spilling onto his jeans. "You broke my nose," he said, sounding congested.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean said. "Fuck me. Sammy, I'm sorry, I didn't—shit. Let's get you inside, okay, I'll set it for you."

"No way," Sam said. "We're going to the hospital."

"What? No!" Dean said. "I can set it no problem, we don't wanna get the hospital involved, what if somebody recognizes us—"

"You just broke my nose, I'm not letting you near me," Sam said, glaring and dropping his hands. His nose—Christ, his nose was already swelling, turning purple—he looked awful, and Dean winced to see it. Sam wiped some of the blood on his shirt sleeve. "We're going to the hospital."

"I. Fine," Dean said. "Move over so I can drive."

"Fine," Sam said, and crawled over to the passenger side, dripping blood all over Dean's seats.

Dean didn't say anything about it.

They spent a total of three hours in the emergency room. For two and a half of them, Sam slouched in the chair next to Dean, arms crossed, and refused to say anything. Dean read every magazine in the waiting area, even the ones about childbirth.

A doctor finally appeared. "Garrett Butler?" he asked.

"That's you," Dean said to Sam.

"I'm going in _alone_ ," Sam said, scowling and clutching at his nose.

"Okay," Dean said, and flipped to the next page of _Us Weekly_. He felt like a complete asshole.

They drove home in silence, Sam fiddling with the tape over the bridge of his nose and Dean thinking of the beer waiting for him in the motel room. Maybe if he drank enough of it, he wouldn't remember any of this the next day.

Sam flopped down on his bed as soon as they got into the room and turned to face the wall, putting his back to Dean.

"You can't go to sleep yet, it's only 8:30," Dean said.

Sam grunted and kicked off his shoes.

 _Crap_. Dean rubbed his chin. He got a beer out of the mini-fridge and popped the cap off, shook two painkillers onto his palm. He sat on the edge of Sam's bed, one knee up on the mattress, and said, "Here."

"What do you _want_ ," Sam said.

"Booze and Percocet," Dean said. "It'll cure what ails you."

"You broke my nose, Dean," Sam said.

Dean winced. "Uh. Sorry?"

Sam rolled over and took the pills out of Dean's hand. "Gimme those." He took the beer, too, and downed half of it in one long swallow.

"Whoa," Dean said, startled.

"Man, are you of all people seriously gonna lecture me about the dangers of mixing opioids and alcohol," Sam said.

"I guess as long as you're using words like 'opioids,' I don't have much to worry about," Dean said, and sighed. "Look, Sam, I'm really sorry."

"I don't forgive you," Sam said. "You broke my _nose_ , you jerk."

"I know," Dean said. He took the beer out of Sam's hand and finished it off, set the empty bottle on the nightstand. "I'm. I didn't mean to."

Sam rolled onto his back. "Yeah. I know you didn't. Jesus, Dean, I was just trying to get you to _talk_ about it."

"Winchesters don't talk," Dean said. "We bellow. Or cuss. But no talking."

"I'm starting to realize that," Sam said.

"Hey," Dean said. He hauled himself fully onto the mattress, propping himself up on his elbows, his arms and thighs pressed right against Sam's. "I really am sorry."

"You better be," Sam said.

"I'll make it up to you," Dean said. He leaned in and kissed Sam, a gentle press of lips. Their noses bumped.

"Ouch!" Sam yelped.

Dean pulled back. "Christ. _Sorry_."

"Just. No kissing," Sam said.

"Fine," Dean said, and moved his mouth down Sam's throat, brushing his lips over Sam's Adam's apple, biting hard at the jut of Sam's collarbone.

"I'm not—Dean," Sam said.

"Just shut up and let me," Dean said, and thumbed open the button of Sam's jeans. He shoved up Sam's shirt as he slid down the bed, rubbing one hand over Sam's belly, feeling the muscles quiver beneath his palm, tense and needy. He shoved his other hand into Sam's jeans, tugged Sam's thick cock out of his briefs, rolling his ring over the head of it. He chuckled. "Hard already, Sammy. Good work."

"Dean, you're just. _Christ_ ," Sam said. "How can I not—look at your _mouth_."

Dean scowled. "You're really pressin' your luck here."

"Okay," Sam said, and rubbed his thumb over Dean's lower lip. "I'll be good."

"Fuckin' better be," Dean muttered, and bent to take Sam's dick into his mouth. Everything about it was familiar—the taste, the weight of it on his tongue, the way Sam groaned and grabbed at Dean's hair—but it was still wonderful, still something he longed for.

It didn't take long. Sam panted, drew his legs up until his knees were bracketing Dean's ears, fucked Dean's throat carelessly. Dean could take it. He swallowed and swallowed, and rubbed his knuckles hard behind Sam's balls.

"Oh," Sam said, "oh shit, _shit_ , Dean," his words dissolving into senseless babble.

Dean pulled off, jacked Sam through it, fisting out thick ropes of come all over Sam's belly. "You liked that?" he asked, smirking.

Sam's head lolled on the pillow.

"Huh," Dean said. He unzipped the fly of his jeans and pulled out his dick, tugging it experimentally—oh yeah, he was good to go. He circled the rim with his fingertips, teasing, and then started jacking himself fast and hard, staring at Sam's flushed face, his lidded eyes.

"God," Sam said. "Dean. You're—can you—"

"Shut up," Dean said. He could feel it building already, a long tide of sweet, rolling pleasure, making his joints all liquid and melting. He looked at Sam's mouth, thought about fucking it, slow and tender—thought about fucking Sam's ass, the way Sam always clenched up tight, digging his heels into Dean's back—and his orgasm hit him out of nowhere, so powerful, washing everything else away.

He watched, half-blinded, as he shot come over Sam's thighs, his softening cock.

"What the— _hey_ ," Sam said.

Dean grinned, dick still in hand, his eyes dropping closed. "Oh yeah, Sammy. Oh shit. That was _awesome_."

"You just came all over me," Sam said.

"I'll clean it up," Dean said. "Just, uh. Just gimme a moment." He waited until he stopped shivering, until his dick was too sensitive to touch; then he opened his eyes again. Sam's thighs were splayed, come-covered, and Dean bent down without thinking and started licking them clean.

"What—holy shit, Dean, what are you—" Sam said, struggling upright.

"Shh," Dean said, nosing at Sam's limp cock, darting his tongue out to taste the head, the dense salt flavor of it, thick with come.

"Oh god," Sam said, "oh god."

Later, both of them showered and curled together in the other bed, Sam pressed his cheek to Dean's neck and murmured, "Dean. I love you. And I know you don't like to say it, and it's okay if you don't say it back. I just need you to know."

Dean tried to squirm away, his face hot. "Quit being an asshole," he said. "I can tell when you're makin' fun of me, you know."

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean and wouldn't let him get away. "Fine," Sam said. "You broke my nose. You better say it."

" _No_ ," Dean said. "Shouldn't the painkillers be kicking in by now?"

"Say it or you're never getting laid again," Sam said.

"I hate you," Dean said. "I hate you, you fuckin' bastard, I hate you so much, let me _go_."

"That's not the right word," Sam said, and sucked hard at Dean's pulse.

"I don't—God _damn_ it, Samuel, I _love_ you. Happy?"

"Very," Sam said.

"Christ, shut up and go to sleep," Dean said, and hit Sam in the chest with a pillow; but he was grinning up at the ceiling, giddy, almost demented with it. Sam bit at Dean's shoulder, again and again, until Dean rolled them both, pinning Sam to the mattress.

They didn't get much sleep that night.  



End file.
